Strange Bedfellows

by BRBrony9

On The Deck

Lord-Admiral Marcos still had his hands clasped behind his back, as he always did, as if nothing was amiss. In actuality, however, everything was threatening to come crashing down around his ears, despite his external calm. The Changelings had boarded his ship for a second time, but this time, it was not a simple infiltration. It was an assault, a boarding party, an invasion. The Emperor's Judgement was in danger, a threat from the inside unlike any the flagship had faced before.

Deck 11 had been fully locked down and sealed, it was hoped. There were worrying reports coming out of the midship deck security armoury, before it had been overrun, that the Changelings had been using the pipe chases and vents for access and to move around the deck. If that was indeed the case, then despite all precautions, Deck 11 was not really secure at all. The Changelings could move between decks essentially at will; it was not possible to seal every single connection between decks. Though most systems on board were designed to operate deck-wide and not be shared between decks, for the purposes of maintaining pressurisation and atmosphere in the event of a hull breach, the simple fact of ship construction was that certain things had to flow between decks at certain points. Where those connections were made, the Changelings could slip through, as there was no way of closing off such openings in most cases. They were too small for men, and too small for something the size of a wolf or most domesticated pets, to pass through. But not, it was reported, for insects, which was how the Changelings had supposedly achieved their coup of taking the armoury by surprise and fury.

If they could do it on one deck, Marcos reasoned, then they could do it on any deck. He had contemplated venting Deck 11 somehow, but the ship's systems were not designed to perform such a function. Perhaps, in an extreme case, he could order one of his other ships to open fire on the Emperor's judgement in order to punch a hole in its hull at the correct point. But even that would only vent a few compartments, not the entire deck, thanks to safeguards and internal bulkheads and automatic doors and forcefields. With the Changelings seemingly in control of the entire deck, that would simply not be enough to stop them, or even to slow them down.

Armsmen had mobilised all across the ship, and every crewman ordered to arm himself with some kind of weapon, be it autopistol or knife or spare length of metal pipe. Key areas of the ship were locked down and reinforced with a triple guard of armsmen, equipped with hellguns and shotguns. Combat Servitors were in place also, and all shipwide internal defences had been activated, auto-turrets standing by for targeting data. The ship was on red alert, with other vessels closing in to render aid, offering boarding parties if needed, and, at the backs of the minds of each captain, the knowledge that, should the bridge fall, they might be called upon to open fire upon their own flagship with a full barrage of torpedoes to scuttle her and deny her use to the enemy. It was a last resort, but it would certainly not be the first time in Imperial history that such an action had to be taken. Perhaps Marcos might have to transfer his flag to another ship and continue the fight from there.

It might not be as simple as that, however. The Changelings had come over from the Polaris Maxima. There was no guarantee that the cruiser was the only other ship to have been playing host to the drones, and they could be in hiding aboard every vessel for all he knew. Intensive searches had turned up nothing, but Marcos knew that it was not that easy to detect a hidden Changeling. There was every chance that they had infiltrated other ships, despite their best efforts. Marcos regretted accepting the offer of assistance from the Polaris Maxima in the first place. He had imposed a ban on transfer between the fleet in a form of quarantine when they first learned of the Changeling threat, but that was weeks ago and no sign of Changeling activity had been detected. The flagship had needed help with repairs and, frankly, he had to admit to himself, he had pushed the idea of a Changeling threat to the back of his mind when the Daemon appeared, and especially when the new Chaos fleet arrived. They were clearly the main threat, and had received his full attention.

Now they were paying the price for his distraction, for his hubris, some would say, at underestimating the Changelings merely because they had seemingly done nothing for several weeks. The real question was how had they managed to et aboard his ship? They had come over from the Polaris Maxima aboard the transfer barges, that was obvious. But were they tucked away in the bowels of the craft? Were they adhered to the outside, something breathing in the vacuum? Or was the reality the most worrying of the three possibilities- that they were in disguise as the maintenance crews themselves? If that latter scenario was the case, then how many more members of the crew of the Polaris Maxima might be enemy in disguise? Had Marcos really spoken to Captain Danrich earlier- or had he been speaking to a Changeling?

There were more alarms sounding on the bridge now. Men were running to and fro taking messages and answering vox-calls from other decks, where concerned officers made what preparations they could for repelling boarders should they reach their location. The men were ready, over a million of them on full alert and as close to a war footing as a bunch of mostly untrained deck hands and labourers could actually get. But what was not clear was how many Changelings had actually come aboard. It could be several hundred, several thousand, or more. Princess Celestia had suggested there was a theoretical upper limit to the number of Changelings it was possible for the Hive to support, but who was to say she or her scientists were correct in that assumption? Besides which, they were very clearly no longer in their Hive anymore.

'My Lord!' an officer shouted. 'Message from Deck 10...they have hostile contact, My Lord.'

Marcos grimaced. As the security officers on Deck 11 had suggested, sealing off the deck had not been enough to stop the Changeling progress. What else could be done, he did not know. The only other option was to fight them to a standstill, which was exactly what he now hoped to do. Both Deck 10 and Deck 12 had been flooded with additional armsmen and Servitors, as well as crewmen who were former armsmen, guardsmen or Arbites and thus had more combat training than the average labourer. If they were going to be able to stop the drones, then that was their best chance. Perhaps, their only chance.

Senior Armsman Marcallas and his squad found themselves on Deck 10, far from their usual haunt of Deck 28. As a unit which had seen combat only recently, his squad and those others who had fought off the Chaos boarding party had been selected to form part of the blocking force that, it was hoped, would hold off the Changelings and keep them confined. They had been rushed through on one of the last turbolift runs through the ship before the system was shut down to try and stymie the movements of the Changelings between decks. Marcallas did not believe he had ever been to Deck 10 before- why would he have? It was rare for a crewman or armsman to ever leave his assigned deck during a tour of duty, let alone to go up another eighteen decks. It was almost as if he was in another world, completely new to him, and yet almost identical.

He had imagined the upper decks must be grandiose spectacles of design and importance, with senior officers everywhere, statues and banners and soaring arches like those which dotted the exterior of the vessel, and so many Imperial palaces and government buildings. But Deck 10, at least, was basically like Deck 28- all bare metal, steam and endless pipes and cables snaking through every available opening in the bulkheads and deck plating. Nothing important, it seemed, was located here, just as there was little of note down on Deck 28. Marcallas felt right at home despite being somewhere he had never set foot before.

The other eleven members of his section- they had lost Armswoman Djanik down below when fighting the Chaos forces- seemed equally at home, and they moved with practised feet. They had been blooded, tempered somewhat by exposure to battle, something which most of the other armsmen aboard had never had the chance to experience, even in away teams or boarding parties. That, it seemed, counted for more than Marcallas had imagined it might. They had been told the bare minimum; the ship had been boarded again, on Deck 11, and they were to move at once to Deck 10 to reinforce and hold the line against any further enemy advance. The journey had taken a few minutes aboard the rapid transport elevators, bringing them up over half a mile in vertical distance. They had to change elevators once, at the mid-station on Deck 15, boarding one of the upper deck lifts that took them the rest of the way to their destination.

They were directed in rapidly to a location fairly close to the middle of the deck, close to the starboard armoury but in a separate section, where a hangar bay opened out into a macrocannon gallery, which had been abandoned by its crew, the men and women of the labour gangs armed with clubs and axes and sent to join the line elsewhere on the deck. The passageways had to be held, they were told, held against the enemy. Only now were they told the truth of the situation.

They wouldn't be facing Chaos infantry this time, oh no. They would be facing down Changelings, a species none of them had ever come into contact with before, never even seen, not even on propaganda vids. Yes, one had come aboard before, but that was elsewhere on the ship, not on Deck 28, and so none of them had come face to face with the creature before. Those few among them who had been planetside for supply missions or security details had never encountered one either- at least, not in their true form. By all accounts, they could disguise themselves as other creatures, including, most worryingly, humans.

Immediately, the rumours which had circulated the ship after the Changeling attack on Lord-General Galen had begun to spread through the ranks of the armsmen again. Their section officer, the young Ensign Stanhope, did her best to quell them, and perhaps to her own surprise, she succeeded surprisingly well. The men were impressed by her command of the detachment down on Deck 28. She had shown a calm and level head despite her youth, and had helped keep casualties to a minimum and win the respect of those who obeyed her orders. There was not exactly optimism among the ranks, but with her in command, they, Senior Armsman Marcallas among them, felt a little better about the situation they were about to face.

Ensign Stanhope directed the men to take positions as best they could. The compaionways and compartments of the Emperor's judgement were not designed with internal defence being particularly high on the list. Practicality and access were paramount to the designers, but there were plenty of protuberances and pieces of machinery and equipment that the armsmen could crouch behind for a modicum of protection. The big problem they had was that nobody knew exactly where the Changelings were going to come from. They had to cover every direction, including above and below. There were pipes and access tunnels all over the place, and the worry, apparently, was that the Changelings could be able to sneak through where other aggressors would be unable.

Marcallas held his autogun tightly, just in case he would be called upon to make use of it. The Changelings sounded like a dangerous threat, but surely, he thought, they couldn't be more dangerous than a large Chaos boarding party, armed to the teeth with a variety of weapons? They had already fought off one of those, and now, he was certain, they would fight off this threat as well. They had to outnumber any boarding party. Not his detachment, but the crew in general. There were many thousands of armsmen on board, to keep order on such a vast vessel, and that was to say nothing of the hundreds of thousands of crewmen who, though lacking experience and weaponry, still had the vigour of faith and the strength in numbers to tide them over and carry them forward to victory.

That may have been the case, but it very rapidly became clear that zeal would not be enough.

A Confessor reading ritual prayers stood just behind Marcallas' section, exerting them to gird their loins for the struggle against the insidious Xenos enemy that would soon be upon them. To very much prove his point, the Confessor found his head being removed from his shoulders virtually in its entirety, by a spinning disc of green energy that leaped from the shadows, seemingly coming from nowhere. His decapitated body collapsed in a heap on the deck, the book of prayer he had been reading from slapping closed as it landed.

Men turned in alarm as they felt blood spray onto their skin, and several of them faced a similar demise, struck from out of nowhere by blasts of green energy. Then case the loud hissing, like a steam leak. Had a pipe been hit? It was only when several dozen Changelings appeared from the darkness of the ceiling cavities that it became apparent the noise was not caused by steam, but by the rapid beating of many pairs of wings.

The drones came in so fast, nobody even had time to shout a warning. Sharp horns pierced exposed throats and punched straight through the armsmen's flimsy flak armour. Other drones fired off magic, cutting down more men. The armsmen reacted as quickly as they could, and shotgun blasts brought down a few of the Changelings at short range. Senior Armsman Marcallas raised his autogun and opened up, spraying bullets up into the darkness, trying to keep an eye open for any of the drones that seemed to be heading in his direction. From a quiet confidence thanks to Ensign Stanhope and the litany of prayers from the Confessor, he had found himself plunged into an abyss of fear. Not just fear, but a primordial soup of the stuff, drawing upon both the hatred of aliens and the insectlike nature of these creatures, to say nothing of their apparent prowess with psychic powers. Their great weapon, he had been told, was their ability to disguise themselves. Yet here they were, hurtling straight for the armsmen around him, in their natural, primeval state, all hissing tongues and sharp fangs and dark, chitinous exoskeletons. The officer who briefed them had been insistent on calling them Changelings, for that was apparently the local name for the species. Yet Marcallas was immediately convinced that he was fighting Tyranids.

His magazine soon ran dry, and he realised he had been panic-firing, simply holding down the trigger like a rookie in his first week of basic training. He knew better than that. He knew much better than that, having just been in a firefight with Chaos infantry where he had shown much better discipline. Something about this situation and the foe he was facing was unsettling him more than the usual fear of death or injury would. He quickly removed the clip and fumbled for a fresh one as the drones closed in. One in particular seemed to take interest in him, and swooped towards him at a high rate of speed. He panicked, dropping the full magazine which clattered on the metal deck plating.

The drone's head exploded and the rest of it fell to the floor. Another armsman had taken a precision shot, or as close to that as could be achieved with a shotgun. The surviving armsmen were being forced together, herded almost, into a huddled group centered around a loading bay platform where cargo was transferred from the hangar to the internal supply elevators for distribution around the ship. Several men and women were cut off and fighting a desperate battle against a ring of drones, who took turns swooping in and trying to stab them with their horns. Some of the men had lost their weapons and were defenceless against their attacks, while others tried their best to fend them off. It was an uneven fight and it did not last long.

Marcallas managed to kneel and grab the loose magazine, slamming it home and racking the charging handle. Another drone was ahead, in his sights, and he fired while moving backwards, toward the loading platform where the others were trying to gather and regroup. He could see Ensign Stanhope to his side, firing her pistol with a determined expression on her face. The other members of his section, who he was meant to be leading, were scattered around, disoriented by the swiftness of the Changeling attack. He could not see them all; perhaps some had been separated, or had fled to safety in another passageway. Perhaps some were dead. He did not know and could not find out.

Another drone tried to close in and stab him with its horn, but he was ready for it, and cut the creature down with a three-round burst of autogun fire. It fell to the deck, dead, but there were more of its fellows coming in, trying to get into close combat range. Others remained at a distance, using their horns to hurl blasts of energy at the armsmen, who now had to contend both with ducking behind cover to avoid their fire, and simultaneously trying to fend of the ravenous hordes at close range. That was hard enough on an open battlefield, but among the twisting passageways and machinery of the Emperor's Judgement it was almost impossible to juggle both threats at once.

More armsmen ran down from the next section along, summoned as reinforcements to help throw back the Changeling assault. They brought some drones down with autogun fire, but those with shotguns had to get much closer to inflict major damage on their targets. That took them into the firing line for retaliation, and though the surge of extra men had a temporary effect in boosting both firepower and morale, the sight of several of the new arrivals dying ignominiously rather reversed that trend.

Marcallas found himself being backed up still further, his section being pressured by enemies from above and from the front. Some drones remained up near the ceiling, in the semi-darkness, shrouded from clear view until they fired their glowing magic. They lacked, perhaps, finesse, seeming to only know different ways of inflicting painful and often fatal wounds on their opponents, or shielding themselves from harm, with little in between such as the more nuanced psychic control an Astartes Librarian, for instance, would possess. But simply causing harm was all they needed to do. They had no need to control minds or cause terrifying visions. Their presence alone was enough to cause that.

Marcallas took aim and fired another burst, missing his target. The drone skittered out of sight behind a large piece of pipework, before bursting from the other side and lunging at an unfortunate armswoman, who went down to the deck with a hole pierced right through her body by the drone's curved horn. He fired again, and this time he was on target, killing the drone, bullets punching into the back of its skull and mincing its brain. There was another nearby, and he moved the barrel to take aim, but something flashed across his vision much closer to him, and then he felt an impact. It knocked him to the ground, and suddenly there it was, looming over him, all fangs and hissing tongue and soulless, slitted eyes.

He thought that this was the end, but fortunately he still had a grip on his autogun. Before the beast could strike, he squeezed the trigger, and blew out the drone's guts from below. It screeched and staggered away, dragging its intestines behind it before collapsing in a heap on the deck. Someone offered Marcallas a hand up, and he took, it getting back to his feet and looking around. The drones seemed to be everywhere, and the surviving armsmen had been forced back onto the loading platform and the surrounding area. The reinforcements from the next compartment had not reached them, finding themselves stymied at the entrance and held at bay by dozens of Changelings.

Ensign Stanhope was still directing operations as best she could. She seemed to be the ranking officer now, the Lieutenant who had been present now either dead or missing. Either way he was no longer in charge of the section of Deck 10 to which he had been assigned. The added responsibility didn't seem to faze her, and she calmly shouted orders; fall back, she called. Fall back.

Fall back where? Marcallas could see no escape, with the drones all over the place. But Stanhope had a plan, and she was pointing toward the stern of the ship, where the reinforcements were trying to push through but were taking heavy casualties. There was the danger of friendly fire, of course, but with twice the firepower being brought to bear, it would hopefully enable them to smash through and link up, getting clear of the killzone they were currently in.

Marcallas shouted for his section to join the push, while others around them covered the rear, trying to protect them from the drones who were closing in. Stanhope led the way, her pistol blazing, trying to carve a way through. If they stayed where they were, they were sure to die. Not that this would necessarily save them; they were still under attack from all over, drones swarming the other end of the chamber. Seeing the humans retreat, they rapidly pressed forward, attacking them from behind, killing several of the rearguard.

Marcallas ran for the door, firing his weapon at the Changelings ahead of him. It was working; they were carving a path through them. The drones had not expected a charge, and Stanhope's plan was proving fruitful. The drones ahead scattered, as they were caught under attack from both the front and the rear. The armsmen at the entrance beckoned for them to run, to hurry through. They could seal the hatch once the chamber had been abandoned, and hopefully trap the drones inside, at least temporarily. Stanhope and some of the men made it through, their boots clanging on the metal deck as they ran into the next section, and to relative safety.

Marcallas kept to the rear of his section, ensuring they were all together and heading for safety. They might survive at least a little while longer, it seemed. So would he. Perhaps not as long as he wished, however. He felt something strike his left leg, below the knee. Pain jolted through him, and he stumbled, collapsing to the deck. He kept a tight grip on his autogun and tried to scramble to his feet. More pain in his leg. He looked up ahead. Most of the armsmen had made it through the hatchway into the next section. Men were firing from the entrance, over his head, at the drones he knew must be behind him. One member of his squad glanced back and noticed him. Armsman Benyamin. He stopped and turned, running to his section leader, arm outstretched, offering a helping hand. A blast of green energy struck him bodily in the chest and stopped him almost cold. He took two more uneasy steps before flopping to the floor, dead.

Marcallas knew he was dead, too. He couldn't run, and they couldn't reach him. Benyamin had tried, and had met his end in the process. He tried crawling, tried getting back up, and just about managed to get on his knees, but it didn't matter. He could see the hatch being closed ahead of him, as a last few stragglers dove for safety. Others were cut off, too far away to make it in time. He counted himself among them. Was there some other salvation, another way out?

Yes. Somehow, mercifully, there was a side passageway, just ahead of him. Evidently it led to some kind of maintenance access, maybe, or merely linked the starboard side of the ship to the port side. He scrambled forward on hands and knees, managing to get to his feet and limp through sheer adrenaline. Gunfire and magic flashed behind him as the last few survivors tried to fight off the inevitable, those who had not gotten through the hatchway in time now finding themselves surrounded by drones. Marcallas, however, had a possible escape route. He staggered onward, trying not to put pressure on his left leg as he did not know how much weight it could take, if any. His calf stung and throbbed with pain, but he dare not look down at it, both because he did not wish to see his own blood and exposed muscle, and because it would waste precious time. He had to keep moving; it was the only chance he had.

So on he went, down the passageway, in the half-light provided by glow-globes in the ceiling and walls. Steam washed across the passage ahead. Some kind of maintenance tunnel, clearly. There was no longer any gunfire behind him, and he prayed that the drones had not noticed him fleeing the chamber. After all, they had not attacked him as he crawled for the passageway entrance.

But it was a forlorn hope, and the skittering of hooves on metal behind him proved that point. He could hear them; they were coming, coming for him, nobody else. Just him, along against the Xenos. Just him, with his trusty autogun, trapped in a narrow passageway. Maybe there was some turnoff ahead, or some door, some chamber he could seal himself into. But no. Instead, there was just a blank wall at the end of a maintenance shaft that led to nowhere. No other exit. It did not lead to anywhere, and now he was trapped.

Marcallas swallowed hard. A quick prayer to the Emperor was all he had time for. He gripped his weapon tightly in sweaty hands and turned, leaning back against the wall, all of his weight on his right leg. The passage he had just limped down was dark, and yet he could see them coming. He could see their eyes.

He raised his gun and fired, holding down the trigger, spraying the narrow passage with bullets, emptying the magazine. That was all he could do. The clip ran dry and he hit the release catch, grabbing for another. There were screeches from the darkness, screeches of pain and anger. But the eyes, the eyes were still there, getting closer. He fumbled with the magazine and slammed it home, opening up again. This time, his bullets pinged and ricocheted in all directions, deflected by a sudden wall of dark, glowing green which had appeared, covering the passageway and illuminating it somewhat. It was the sight Marcallas had dreaded.

There they were. He could only count seven, but there had to be more. He was sure there had been more than seven pairs of eyes there in the gloom. Maybe if the Navy had bothered paying extra credits to install better lighting in their maintenance tunnels, he would have a better view. He found himself laughing at that thought- what a thing to be thinking in your last moments! Nothing profound, nothing romantic or heroic or dramatic. Just a complaint about a minor aspect of Imperial life, and life aboard ship, the life he now knew, and the life he would take to his grave.

For there was no doubt in his mind now, no possibility of escape. He was going to die, in some forgotten corner of a forgotten deck of a ship that may well find itself forgotten in the annals of Imperial history. He certainly couldn't fight his way out, and nobody was coming to save him. Armsman Benyamin had tried, and had died in the process. He was trapped, and the Changelings were coming.

He loaded another magazine and fired again, but with the same result. The green shield stopped his attack, the spent bullets clinking on the deck plating, unable to penetrate the magical screen to inflict any damage whatsoever to the drones beyond. They were steadily advancing on him, as if they were stalking their prey, which, of course, they were. He let go of the trigger. It was pointless to keep shooting. It wasn't accomplishing anything. Might as well accept the inevitable, to go out singing the glories of the Emperor, nothing but devotion and faith on his lips. That was what the Confessor would have said, before his head was separated from his body by the Changelings' surprise attack. But he still had bullets left, and it would be a shame to waste them all.

The shield went down, and the drones charged, sensing his weakness and hesitation. They wanted blood, and they would get it. But Marcallas decided he would not let himself be aware of it happening. He flipped his autogun around and pressed the barrel against the underside of his chin. Faced with the alternative, it was easy enough for him to pull the trigger.

Comments

[Booster Spice]

May the Emperors Light guide you.

[RDDash]

Use a self destruct feature on a autogun and group hug a nearest changeling